here on such good
authority, we were getting very sorry for Bellini's mother, when we
were unexpectedly relieved, by finding it was only a bit of
make-believe; for it was now divulged, _che questa madre che piangea
il suo figlio_, was not in fact his personal mother, but "_Italy_"
dressed up _like_ his mother, and gone to Paris on purpose to weep and
put garlands on the composer's tomb, amaranth and crocus, and whatever
else was in season. Thunders of applause--we hope the new chapel is
insured!-for the _assiduo ruptae lectore columnae_ is as old as
earthquake in Italy. He now mopped his forehead, and prepared for a
new effort. The English girls are already in raptures, and their
Italian masters, sitting by, "ride on the whirlwind and direct the
storm." The next subject which destiny assigned to him, and inflicted
on us, was _The Exile_. A nicely manured field or common place to sow
and reap on--and what a harvest it yielded accordingly!--the dear
friends! the dear native hill! the honour of suffering for the truth!
(political martyrdom!) the mother that bore him--(and a good deal
besides)--his helpless children! (a proper number for the
occasion,)--all these fascinating themes were dwelt on, one by one,
till, moved apparently at our emotion, he dropt his menacing attitude,
and, mitigating his voice, assumed a resigned demeanour, of which many
of his audience had long since set him the example. He began to look
down mournfully, whereas he had a minute ago looked up fiercely--a
smile, to the relief of the young ladies, stole over his countenance,
and having thrice shaken his head to dispel whatever gloomy thoughts
might still be lingering there, he carried us to the Exile's return,
which brought of course the natal soil and a second service of the
mother, sire, and son, with the addition of a dog, a clump of trees, a
church, and a steeple. He compresses between his hands the yielding
cambric into a very small space, his body is fixed, his legs are
slightly apart, his head wags, like a wooden mandarin's, with thoughts
too big for utterance, till the moment arrives for the critical start,
then, "_Duplices tendens ad sidera palmas_," he becomes quite
Virgilian. The unfurled cambric flutters to the breeze of his own
creation, and coruscations of white kid and other white materials pass
and repass before our eyes. He gives vent to his emotions in tears,
after a reasonable indulgence in which, as he cannot (as Tilburina's
_con